In a poem dedicated to Leigh Hunt, by Keats, the following
allusion to the story of Pan and Syrinx occurs:--
"So did he feel who pulled the boughs aside,
That we might look into a forest wide,
* * * * * * * *
Telling us how fair trembling Syrinx fled
Arcadian Pan, with such a fearful dread.
Poor nymph poor Pan how he did weep to find
Nought but a lovely sighing of the wind
Along the reedy stream; a half-heard strain,
Full of sweet desolation, balmy pain."
CALLISTO
Callisto was another maiden who excited the jealousy of Juno, and
the goddess changed her into a bear. "I will take away," said
she, :"that beauty with which you have captivated my husband."
Down fell Callisto on her hands and knees; she tried to stretch
out her arms in supplication,-- they were already beginning to be
covered with black hair. Her hands grew rounded, became armed
with crooked claws, and served for feet; her mouth, which Jove
used to praise for its beauty, became a horrid pair of jaws; her
voice, which if unchanged would have moved the heart to pity,
became a growl, more fit to inspire terror. Yet her former
disposition remained, and, with continued groaning, she bemoaned
her fate, and stood upright as well as she could, lifting up her
paws to beg for mercy; and felt that Jove was unkind, though she
could not tell him so. Ah, how often, afraid to stay in the
woods all night alone, she wandered about the neighborhood of her
former haunts; how often, frightened by the dogs, did she, so
lately a huntress, fly in terror from the hunters! Often she
fled from the wild beasts, forgetting that she was now a wild
beast herself; and, bear as she was, was afraid of the bears.
One day a youth espied her as he was hunting. She saw him and
recognized him as her own son, now grown a young man. She
stopped, and felt inclined to embrace him. As she was about to
approach, he, alarmed, raised his hunting spear, and was on the
point of transfixing her, when Jupiter, beholding, arrested the
crime, and, snatching away both of them, placed them in the
heavens as the Great and Little Bear.
Juno was in a rage to see her rival so set in honor, and hastened
to ancient Tethys and Oceanus, the powers of ocean, and, in
answer to their inquiries, thus told the cause of her coming; "Do
you ask why I, the queen of the gods, have left the heavenly
plains and sought your depths. Learn that I am supplanted in
heaven,-- my place is given to another. You will hardly believe
me; but look when night darkens the world, and you shall see the
two, of whom I have so much reason to complain, exalted to the
heavens, in that part where the circle is the smallest, in the
neighborhood of the pole. Why should any one hereafter tremble
at the thought of offending Juno, when such rewards are the
consequence of my displeasure! See what I have been able to
effect! I forbade her to wear the human form,-- she is placed
among the stars! So do my punishments result,-- such is the
extent of my power! Better that she should have resumed her
former shape, as I permitted Io to do. Perhaps he means to marry
her, and put me away! But you, my foster parents, if you feel
for me, and see with displeasure this unworthy treatment of me,
show it, I beseech you, by forbidding this guilty couple from
coming into your waters." The powers of the ocean assented, and
consequently the two constellations of the Great and Little Bear
move round and round in heaven, but never sink, as the other
stars do, beneath the ocean.
Milton alludes to the fact that the constellation of the Bear
never sets, when he says,
"Let my lamp at midnight hour
Be seen in some high lonely tower,
Where I may oft outwatch the Bear."
Il Penseroso
And Prometheus, in James Russell Lowell's poem, says,
"One after one the stars have risen and set,
Sparkling upon the hoar-frost of my chain;
The Bear that prowled all night about the fold
Of the North Star, hath shrunk into his den,
Scared by the blithsome footsteps of the dawn."
The last star in the tail of the Little Bear is the Pole star,
called also the Cynosure. Milton says,
"Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures
While the landscape round it measures.
* * * * * * * *
Towers and battlements it sees
Bosomed high in tufted trees,
Where perhaps some beauty lies
The Cynosure of neighboring eyes."
L'Allegro.
The reference here is both to the Pole-star as the guide of
mariners, and to the magnetic attraction of the North. He calls
it also the "Star of Aready," because Callisto's boy was named
Arcas, and they lived in Arcadia. In Milton's Comus, the elder
brother, benighted in the woods, says,
"Some gentle taper!
Through a rush candle, from
the wicker hole
Of some clay habitation,
visit us
With thy long levelled rule
of streaming light,
And thou shalt be our star of Aready,
Or Tyrian Chynsure."
DIANA AND ACTAEON
It was midday, and the sun stood equally distant from either
goal, when young Actaeon, son of King Cadmus, thus addressed the
youths who with him were hunting the stag in the mountains:--
"Friends, our nets and our weapons are wet with the blood of our
victims; we have had sport enough for one day, and tomorrow we
can renew our labors. Now, while Phoebus parches the earth, let
us put by our instruments and indulge ourselves with rest."
There was a valley thickly enclosed with cypresses and pines,
sacred to the huntress-queen, Diana. In the extremity of the
valley was a cave, not adorned with art, but nature had
counterfeited art in its construction, for she had turned the
arch of its roof with stones as delicately fitted as if by the
hand of man. A fountain burst out from one side, whose open
basin was bounded by a grassy rim. Here the goddess of the woods
used to come when weary with hunting and lave her virgin limbs in
the sparkling water.
One day, having repaired thither with her nymphs, she handed her
javelin, her quiver, and her bow to one, her robe to another,
while a third unbound the sandals from her feet. Then Crocale,
the most skilful of them, arranged her hair, and Nephele, Hyale,
and the rest drew water in capacious urns. While the goddess was
thus employed in the labors of the toilet, behold, Actaeon,
having quitted his companions, and rambling without any especial
object, came to the place, led thither by his destiny. As he
presented himself at the entrance of the cave, the nymphs, seeing
a man, screamed and rushed towards the goddess to hide her with
their bodies. But she was taller than the rest, and overtopped
them all by a head. Such a color as tinges the clouds at sunset
or at dawn came over the countenance of Diana thus taken by
surprise. Surrounded as she was by her nymphs, she yet turned
half away, and sought with a sudden impulse for her arrows. As
they were not at hand, she dashed the water into the face of the
intruder, adding these words: "Now go and tell, if you can, that
you have seen Diana unapparelled." Immediately a pair of
branching stag's horns grew out of his head, his neck gained in
length, his ears grew sharp-pointed, his hands became feet, his
arms long legs, his body was covered with a hairy spotted hide.
Fear took the place of his former boldness, and the hero fled.
He could not but admire his own speed; but when he saw his horns
in the water, "Ah, wretched me!: he would have said, but no sound
followed the effort. He groaned, and tears flowed down the face
that had taken the place of his own. Yet his consciousness
remained. What shall he do? Go home to seek the palace, or lie
hid in the woods? The latter he was afraid, the former he was
ashamed, to do. While he hesitated the dogs saw him. First
Melampus, a Spartan dog, gave the signal with his bark, then
Pamphagus, Dorceus, Lelaps, Theron, Nape, Tigris, and all the
rest, rushed after him swifter than the wind. Over rocks and
cliffs, through mountain gorges that seemed impracticable, he
fled, and they followed. Where he had often chased the stag and
cheered on his pack, his pack now chased him, cheered on by his
own huntsmen. He longed to cry out, "I am Actaeon; recognize
your master!" But the words came not at his will. The air
resounded with the bark of the dogs. Presently one fastened on
his back, another seized his shoulder. While they held their
master, the rest of the pack came up and buried their teeth in
his flesh. He groaned, not in a human voice, yet certainly not
in a stag's, and, falling on his knees, raised his eyes, and
would have raised his arms in supplication, if he had had them.
His friends and fellow-huntsmen cheered on the dogs, and looked
every where for Actaeon, calling on him to join the sport. At
the sound of his name, he turned his head, and heard them regret
that he should be away. He earnestly wished he was. He would
have been well pleased to see the exploits of his dogs, but to
feel them was too much. They were all around him, rending and
tearing; and it was not till they had torn his life out that the
anger of Diana was satisfied.
In the "Epic of Hades" there is a description of Actaeon and his
change of form. Perhaps the most beautiful lines in it are when
Actaeon, changed to a stag, first hears his own hounds and flees.
"But as I gazed, and careless turned and passed
Through the thick wood, forgetting what had been,
And thinking thoughts no longer, swift there came
A mortal terror; voices that I knew.
My own hounds' bayings that I loved before,
As with them often o'er the purple hills
I chased the flying hart from slope to slope,
Before the slow sun climbed the eastern peaks,
Until the swift sun smote the western plain;
Whom often I had cheered by voice and glance,
Whom often I had checked with hand and thong;
Grim followers, like the passions, firing me,
True servants, like the strong nerves, urging me
On many a fruitless chase, to find and take
Some too swift-fleeting beauty, faithful feet
And tongues, obedient always: these I knew
Clothed with a new-born force and vaster grown,
And stronger than their master; and I thought,
What if they tore me with their jaws, nor knew
That once I ruled them, brute pursuing brute,
And I the quarry? Then I turned and fled
If it was I indeed that feared and fled
Down the long glades, and through the tangled brakes,
Where scarce the sunlight pierced; fled on and on,
And panted, self-pursued. But evermore
The dissonant music which I knew so sweet,
When by the windy hills, the echoing vales
And whispering pines it rang; now far, now near
As from my rushing steed I leant and cheered
With voice and horn the chase; this brought to me
Fear of I knew not what, which bade me fly,
Fly always, fly; but when my heart stood still,
And all my limbs were stiffened as I fled,
Just as the white moon ghost-like climbed the sky,
Nearer they came and nearer, baying loud,
With bloodshot eyes and red jaws dripping foam;
And when I strove to check their savagery,
Speaking with words; no voice articulate came,
Only a dumb, low bleat. Then all the throng
Leapt swift upon me and tore me as I lay,
And left me man again."
In Shelley's poem Adonais is the following allusion to the story
of Actaeon:--
"Midst others of less note came one frail form,
A phantom among men; companionless
As the last cloud of an expiring storm,
Whose thunder is its knell; he, as I guess,
Had gazed on Nature's naked loveliness,
Actaeon-like, and now he fled astray
With feeble steps o'er the world's wilderness;
And his own Thoughts, along that rugged way,
Pursued like raging hounds their father and their prey."
Adonais, stanza 31.
The allusion is probably to Shelley himself.
LATONA AND THE RUSTICS
Some thought the goddess in this instance more severe than was
just, while others praised her conduct as strictly consistent
with her virgin dignity. As usual, the recent event brought
older ones to mind, and one of the bystanders told this story.
"Some countrymen of Lycia once insulted the goddess Latona, but
not with impunity. When I was young, my father, who had grown
too old for active labors, sent me to Lycia to drive thence some
choice oxen, and there I saw the very pond and marsh where the
wonder happened. Near by stood an ancient altar, black with the
smoke of sacrifice and almost buried among the reeds. I inquired
whose altar it might be, whether of Faunus or the Naiads or some
god of the neighboring mountain, and one of the country people
replied, 'No mountain or river god possesses this altar, but she
whom royal Juno in her jealousy drove from land to land, denying
her any spot of earth whereon to rear her twins. Bearing in her
arms the infant deities, Latona reached this land, weary with her
burden and parched with thirst. By chance she espied in the
bottom of the valley this pond of clear water, where the country
people were at work gathering willows and osiers. The goddess
approached, and kneeling on the bank would have slaked her thirst
in the cool stream, but the rustics forbade her. 'Why do you
refuse me water?' said she; 'water is free to all. Nature allows
no one to claim as property the sunshine, the air, or the water.
I come to take my share of the common blessing. Yet I ask it of
you as a favor. I have no intention of washing my limbs in it,
weary though they be, but only to quench my thirst. My mouth is
so dry that I can hardly speak. A draught of water would be
nectar to me; it would revive me, and I would own myself indebted
to you for life itself. Let these infants move your pity, who
stretch out their little arms as if to plead for me'; and the
children, as it happened, were stretching out their arms.
"Who would not have been moved with these gentle words of the
goddess? But these clowns persisted in their rudeness; they even
added jeers and threats of violence if she did not leave the
place. Nor was this all. They waded into the pond and stirred
up the mud with their feet, so as to make the water unfit to
drink. Latona was so angry that she ceased to feel her thirst.
She no longer supplicated the clowns, but lifting her hands to
heaven exclaimed, 'May they never quit that pool, but pass their
lives there!' And it came to pass accordingly. They now live in
the water, sometimes totally submerged, then raising their heads
above the surface, or swimming upon it. Sometimes they come out
upon the bank, but soon leap back again into the water. They
still use their base voices in railing, and though they have the
water all to themselves, are not ashamed to croak in the midst of
it. Their voices are harsh, their throats bloated, their mouths
have become stretched by constant railing, their necks have
shrunk up and disappeared, and their heads are joined to their
bodies. Their backs are green, their disproportioned bellies
white, and in short they are now frogs, and dwell in the slimy
pool."
This story explains the allusion in one of Milton's sonnets, "On
the detraction which followed upon his writing certain
treatises."
"I did but prompt the age to quit their clogs
By the known laws of ancient liberty,.
When straight a barbarous noise environs me
Of owls and cuckoos, asses, apes and dogs.
As when those hinds that were transformed to frogs
Railed at Latona's twin-born progeny,
Which after held the sun and moon in fee."
The persecution which Latona experienced from Juno is alluded to
in the story. The tradition was that the future mother of Apollo
and Diana, flying from the wrath of Juno, besought all the
islands of the Aegean to afford her a place of rest, but all
feared too much the potent queen of heaven to assist her rival.
Delos alone consented to become the birthplace of the future
deities. Delos was then a floating island; but when Latona
arrived there, Jupiter fastened it with adamantine chains to the
bottom of the sea, that it might be a secure resting place for
his beloved. Byron alludes to Delos in his Don Juan:--
"The isles of Greece! The isles of Greece!
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where grew the arts of war and peace,
Where Delos rose and Phoebus sprung!"
PHAETON
Epaphus was the son of Jupiter and Io. Phaeton, child of the
Sun, was one day boasting to him of his high descent and of his
father Phoebus. Epaphus could not bear it. "Foolish fellow,"
said he "you believe your mother in all things, and you are
puffed up by your pride in a false father." Phaeton went in rage
and shame and reported this to his mother, Clymene. "If," said
he, "I am indeed of heavenly birth, give me, mother, some proof
of it, and establish my claim to the honor." Clymene stretched
forth her hands towards the skies, and said, "I call to witness
the Sun which looks down upon us, that I have told you the truth.
If I speak falsely, let this be the last time I behold his light.
But it needs not much labor to go and inquire for yourself; the
land whence the sun rises lies next to ours. Go and demand of
him whether he will own you as a son" Phaeton heard with delight.
He travelled to India, which lies directly in the regions of
sunrise; and, full of hope and pride, approached the goal whence
the Sun begins his course.
The palace of the Sun stood reared aloft on columns, glittering
with gold and precious stones, while polished ivory formed the
ceilings, and silver the doors. The workmanship surpassed the
material; for upon the walls Vulcan had represented earth, sea
and skies, with their inhabitants. In the sea were the nymphs,
some sporting in the waves, some riding on the backs of fishes,
while others sat upon the rocks and dried their sea-green hair.
Their faces were not all alike, nor yet unlike, but such as
sisters' ought to be. The earth had its towns and forests and
rivers and rustic divinities. Over all was carved the likeness
of the glorious heaven; and on the silver doors the twelve signs
of the zodiac, six on each side.
Clymene's son advanced up the steep ascent, and entered the halls
of his disputed father. He approached the paternal presence, but
stopped at a distance, for the light was more than he could bear.
Phoebus, arrayed in a purple vesture, sat on a throne which
glittered as with diamonds. On his right hand and his left stood
the Day, the Month, and the Year, and, at regular intervals, the
Hours. Spring stood with her head crowned with flowers, and
Summer, with garment cast aside, and a garland formed of spears
of ripened grain, and Autumn, with his feet stained with grape
juice, and icy Winter, with his hair stiffened with hoar frost.
Surrounded by these attendants, the Sun, with the eye that sees
every thing, beheld the youth dazzled with the novelty and
splendor of the scene, and inquired the purpose of his errand.
The youth replied, "Oh, light of the boundless world, Phoebus, my
father, if you permit me to use that name, give me some
proof, I beseech you, by which I may be known as yours." He
ceased; and his father, laying aside the beams that shone all
around his head, bade him approach, and embracing him, said, "My
son, you deserve not to be disowned, and I confirm what your
mother has told you. To put an end to your doubts, ask what you
will, the gift shall be yours. I call to witness that dreadful
lake, which I never saw, but which we gods swear by in our most
solemn engagements." Phaeton immediately asked to be permitted
for one day to drive the chariot of the sun. The father repented
of his promise; thrice and four times he shook his radiant head
in warning. "I have spoken rashly," said he; "only this request
I would fain deny. I beg you to withdraw it. It is not a safe
boon, nor one, my Phaeton, suited to your youth and strength.
Your lot is mortal, and you ask what is beyond a mortal's power.
In your ignorance you aspire to do that which not even the gods
themselves may do. None but myself may drive the flaming car of
day; not even Jupiter, whose terrible right arm hurls the thunder
bolts. The first part of the way is steep, and such as the
horses when fresh in the morning can hardly climb; the middle is
high up in the heavens, whence I myself can scarcely, without
alarm, look down and behold the earth and sea stretched beneath
me. The last part of the road descends rapidly, and requires
most careful driving. Tethys, who is waiting to receive me,
often trembles for me lest I should fall headlong. Add to all
this, the heaven is all the time turning round and carrying the
stars with it. I have to be perpetually on my guard lest that
movement, which sweeps everything else along, should hurry me
also away. Suppose I should lend you the chariot, what would you
do? Could you keep your course while the sphere was revolving
under you? Perhaps you think that there are forests and cities,
the abodes of gods, and palaces and temples on the way. On the
contrary, the road is through the midst of frightful monsters.
You pass by the horns of the Bull, in front of the Archer, and
near the Lion's jaws, and where the Scorpion stretches its arms
in one direction and the Crab in another. Nor will you find it
easy to guide those horses, with their breasts full of fire which
they breathe forth from their mouths and nostrils. I can
scarcely govern them myself, when they are unruly and resist the
reins. Beware, my son, lest I should give you a fatal gift;
recall your request while yet you may. Do you ask me for proof
that you are sprung from my blood? I give you a proof in my
fears for you. Look at my face,-- I would that you could look
into my breast, you would there see all a father's anxiety.
Finally," he continued, "look round the world and choose whatever
you will of what earth or sea contains most precious, ask it
and fear no refusal. This only I pray you not to urge. It is
not honor, but destruction you seek. Why do you hang round my
neck and still entreat me? You shall have it if you persist,
the oath is sworn and must be kept, but I beg you to choose
more wisely."
He ended; but the youth rejected all admonition, and held to his
demand. So, having resisted as long as he could, Phoebus at last
led the way to where stood the lofty chariot.
It was of gold, the gift of Vulcan; the axle was of gold, the
pole and wheels of gold, the spokes of silver. Along the seat
were rows of chrysolites and diamonds, which reflected all around
the brightness of the sun. While the daring youth gazed in
admiration, the early Dawn threw open the purple doors of the
east, and showed the pathway strewn with roses. The stars
withdrew, marshalled by the Daystar, which last of all retired
also. The father, when he saw the earth beginning to glow, and
the Moon preparing to retire, ordered the Hours to harness up the
horses. They obeyed, and led forth from the lofty stalls the
steeds full fed with ambrosia, and attached the reins. Then the
father bathed the face of his son with a powerful unguent, and
made him capable of enduring the brightness of the flame. He set
the rays on his head, and, with a foreboding sigh, said, "If, my
son, you will in this at least heed my advice, spare the whip and
hold tight the reins. They go fast enough of their own accord;
the labor is to hold them in. You are not to take the straight
road directly between the five circles, but turn off to the left.
Keep within the limit of the middle zone, and avoid the northern
and the southern alike. You will see the marks of the wheels,
and they will serve to guide you. And, that the skies and the
earth may each receive their due share of heat, go not too high,
or you will burn the heavenly dwellings, nor too low, or you will
set the earth on fire; the middle course is safest and best. And
now I leave you to your chance, which I hope will plan better for
you than you have done for yourself. Night is passing out of the
western gates and we can delay no longer. Take the reins; but if
at last your heart fails you, and you will benefit by my advice,
stay where you are in safety, and suffer me to light and warm the
earth." The agile youth sprang into the chariot, stood erect and
grasped the reins with delight, pouring out thanks to his
reluctant parent.
Meanwhile the horses fill the air with their snortings and fiery
breath, and stamp the ground impatient. Now the bars are let
down, and the boundless plain of the universe lies open before
them. They dart forward and cleave the opposing clouds, and
outrun the morning breezes which started from the same eastern
goal. The steeds soon perceived that the load they drew was
lighter than usual; and as a ship without ballast is tossed
hither and thither on the sea, so the chariot, without its
accustomed weight, was dashed about as if empty. They rush
headlong and leave the travelled road. He is alarmed, and knows
not how to guide them; nor, if he knew, has he the power. Then,
for the first time, the Great and Little Bear were scorched with
heat, and would fain, if it were possible, have plunged into the
water; and the Serpent which lies coiled up round the north pole,
torpid and harmless, grew warm, and with warmth felt its rage
revive. Bootes, they say, fled away, though encumbered with his
plough, and all unused to rapid motion.
When hapless Phaeton looked down upon the earth, now spreading in
vast extent beneath him, he grew pale and his knees shook with
terror. In spite of the glare all around him, the sight of his
eyes grew dim. He wished he had never touched his father's
horses, never learned his parentage, never prevailed in his
request. He is borne along like a vessel that flies before a
tempest, when the pilot can do no more and betakes himself to his
prayers. What shall he do? Much of the heavenly road is left
behind, but more remains before. He turns his eyes from one
direction to the other; now to the goal whence he began his
course, now to the realms of sunset which he is not destined to
reach. He loses his self-command, and knows not what to do,
whether to draw tight the reins or throw them loose; he forgets
the names of the horses. He sees with terror the monstrous forms
scattered over the surface of heaven. Here the Scorpion extended
his two great arms, with his tail and crooked claws stretching
over two signs of the zodiac. When the boy beheld him, reeking
with poison and menacing with his fangs, his courage failed, and
the reins fell from his hands. The horses, feeling the reins
loose on their backs, dashed headlong, and unrestrained went off
into unknown regions of the sky, in among the stars, hurling the
chariot over pathless places, now up in high heaven, now down
almost to the earth. The moon saw with astonishment her
brother's chariot running beneath her own. The clouds begin to
smoke, and the mountain tops take fire; the fields are parched
with heat, the plants wither, the trees with their leafy branches
burn, the harvest is ablaze! But these are small things. Great
cities perished, with their walls and towers; whole nations with
their people were consumed to ashes! The forest-clad mountains
burned, Athos and Taurus and Tmolus and OEte; Ida, once
celebrated for fountains, but now all dry; the Muses' mountain
Helicon, and Haemus; AEtna, with fires within and without, and
Parnassus, with his two peaks, and Rhodope, forced at last to
part with his snowy crown. Her cold climate was no protection to
Scythia, Caucasus burned, and Ossa and Pindus, and, greater than
both, Olympus; the Alps high in air, and the Apennines crowned
with clouds.
Then Phaeton beheld the world on fire, and felt the heat
intolerable. The air he breathed was like the air of a furnace
and full of burning ashes, and the smoke was of a pitchy
darkness. He dashed forward he knew not whither. Then, it is
believed, the people of AEthiopia became black by the blood being
forced so suddenly to the surface, and the Libyan desert was
dried up to the condition in which it remains to this day. The
Nymphs of the fountains, with dishevelled hair, mourned their
waters, nor were the rivers safe beneath their banks; Tanais
smoked, and Caicus, Xanthus and Meander. Babylonian Euphrates
and Ganges, Tagus with golden sands, and Caijster where the swans
resort. Nile fled away and hid his head in the desert, and there
it still remains concealed. Where he used to discharge his
waters through seven mouths into the sea, there seven dry
channels alone remained. The earth cracked open, and through the
chinks light broke into Tartarus, and frightened the king of
shadows and his queen. The sea shrank up. Where before was
water, it became a dry plain; and the mountains that lie beneath
the waves lifted up their heads and became islands. The fishes
sought the lowest depths, and the dolphins no longer ventured as
usual to sport on the surface. Even Nereus, and his wife Doris,
with the Nereids, their daughters, sought the deepest caves for
refuge. Thrice Neptune essayed to raise his head above the
surface and thrice was driven back by the heat. Earth,
surrounded as she was by waters, yet with head and shoulders
bare, screening her face with her hand, looked up to heaven, and
with a husky voice called on Jupiter.
"O ruler of the gods, if I have deserved this treatment, and it
is your will that I perish with fire, why withhold your
thunderbolts? Let me at least fall by your hand. Is this the
reward of my fertility, of my obedient service? Is it for this
that I have supplied herbage for cattle, and fruits for men, and
frankincense for your altars? But if I am unworthy of regard,
what has my brother Ocean done to deserve such a fate? If
neither of us can excite your pity, think, I pray you, of your
own heaven, and behold how both the poles are smoking which
sustain your palace, which must fall if they be destroyed. Atlas
faints, and scarce holds up his burden. If sea, earth, and
heaven perish, we fall into ancient Chaos. Save what yet remains
to us from the devouring flame. Oh, take thought for our
deliverance in this awful moment!"
Thus spoke Earth, and overcome with heat and thirst, could say no
more. Then Jupiter Omnipotent, calling to witness all the gods,
including him who had lent the chariot, and showing them that all
was lost unless some speedy remedy were applied, mounted the
lofty tower from whence he diffuses clouds over the earth, and
hurls the forked lightnings. But at that time not a cloud was to
be found to interpose for a screen to earth, nor was a shower
remaining unexhausted. He thundered, and brandishing a
lightning-bolt in his right hand launched it against the
charioteer, and struck him at the same moment from his seat and
from existence! Phaeton, with his hair on fire, fell headlong,
like a shooting star which marks the heavens with its brightness
as it falls, and Eridanus, the great river, received him and
cooled his burning frame. The Italian Naiads reared a tomb for
him, and inscribed these words upon the stone:
"Driver of Phoebus' chariot, Phaeton,
Struck by Jove's thunder, rests beneath this stone.
He could not rule his father's car of fire,
Yet was it much so nobly to aspire."
His sisters, the Heliades, as they lamented his fate were turned
into poplar trees, on the banks of the river, and their tears,
which continued to flow, became amber as they dropped into the
stream,
One of Prior's best remembered poems is that on the Female
Phaeton, from which we quote the last verse.
Kitty has been imploring her mother to allow her to go out into
the world as her friends have done, if only for once.
"Fondness prevailed, mamma gave way;
Kitty, at heart's desire,
Obtained the chariot for a day,
And set the world on fire."
Milman, in his poem of Samor, makes the following allusion to
Phaeton's story:--
"As when the palsied universe aghast
Lay .... mute and still,
When drove, so poets sing, the sun-born youth
Devious through Heaven's affrighted signs his sire's
Ill-granted chariot. Him the Thunderer hurled
From th'empyrean headlong to the gulf
Of the half-parched Eridanus, where weep
Even now the sister trees their amber tears
O 'er Phaeton untimely dead."
In the beautiful lines of Walter Savage Lando describing the sea-
shell, there is an allusion to the sun's palace and chariot. The
water-nymph says,
"I have sinuous shells of pearly hue
Within, and things that lustre have imbibed
In the sun's palace porch, where when unyoked
His chariot-wheel stands midway in the wave.
Shake one and it awakens; then apply
Its polished lip to your attentive car,
And it remembers its August abodes,
And murmurs as the ocean murmurs there."
Gebir, Book 1
Chapter IV
Midas. Baucis and Philemon. Pluto and Proserpine.
Bacchus, on a certain occasion, found his old school master and
foster father, Silenus, missing. The old man had been drinking,
and in that state had wandered away, and was found by some
peasants, who carried him to their king, Midas. Midas recognized
him, and treated him hospitably, entertaining him for ten days
and nights with an unceasing round of jollity. On the eleventh
day he brought Silenus back, and restored him in safety to his
pupil. Whereupon Bacchus offered Midas his choice of whatever
reward he might wish. He asked that whatever he might touch
should be changed into GOLD. Bacchus consented, though sorry
that he had not made a better choice. Midas went his way,
rejoicing in his newly acquired power, which he hastened to put
to the test. He could scarce believe his eyes when he found that
a twig of an oak, which he plucked from the branch, became gold
in his hand. He took up a stone it changed to gold. He
touched a sod it did the same. He took an apple from the tree
you would have thought he had robbed the garden of the
Hesperides. His joy knew no bounds, and as soon as he got home,
he ordered the servants to set a splendid repast on the table.
Then he found to his dismay that whether he touched bread, it
hardened in his hand; or put a morsel to his lips, it defied his
teeth. He took a glass of wine, but it flowed down his throat
like melted gold.
In consternation at the unprecedented affliction, he strove to
divest himself of his power; he hated the gift he had lately
coveted. But all in vain; starvation seemed to await him. He
raised his arms, all shining with gold, in prayer to Bacchus,
begging to be delivered from his glittering destruction.
Bacchus, merciful deity, heard and consented. "Go," said he, "to
the river Pactolus, trace the stream to its fountain-head, there
plunge in your head and body and wash away your fault and its
punishment." He did so, and scarce had he touched the waters
before the gold-creating power passed into them, and the river
sands became changed into GOLD, as they remain to this day.
Thenceforth Midas, hating wealth and splendor, dwelt in the
country, and became a worshipper of Pan, the god of the fields.
On a certain occasion Pan had the temerity to compare his music
with that of Apollo, and to challenge the god of the lyre to a
trial of skill. The challenge was accepted, and Tmolus, the
mountain-god, was chosen umpire. Tmolus took his seat and
cleared away the trees from his ears to listen. At a given
signal Pan blew on his pipes, and with his rustic melody gave
great satisfaction to himself and his faithful follower, Midas,
who happened to be present. Then Tmolus turned his head toward
the sun-god, and all his trees turned with him. Apollo rose, his
brow wreathed with Parnassian laurel, while his robe of Tyrian
purple swept the ground. In his left hand he held the lyre, and
with his right hand struck the strings. Ravished with the
harmony, Tmolus at once awarded the victory to the god of the
lyre, and all but Midas acquiesced in the judgment. He
dissented, and questioned the justice of the award. Apollo would
not suffer such a depraved pair of ears any longer to wear the
human form, but caused them to increase in length, grow hairy,
within and without, and to become movable, on their roots; in
short, to be on the perfect pattern of those of an ass.
Mortified enough was King Midas at this mishap; but he consoled
himself with the thought that it was possible to hide his
misfortune, which he attempted to do by means of an ample turban
or headdress. But his hairdresser of course knew the secret. He
was charged not to mention it, and threatened with dire
punishment if he presumed to disobey. But he found it too much
for his discretion to keep such a secret; so he went out into the
meadow, dug a hole in the ground, and stooping down, whispered
the story, and covered it up. Before long a thick bed of reeds
sprang up in the meadow, and as soon as it had gained its growth,
began whispering the story, and has continued to do so, from that
day to this, with every breeze which passes over the place.
The story of King Midas has been told by others with some
variations. Dryden, in the Wife of Bath's Tale, makes Midas'
queen the betrayer of the secret.
"This Midas knew, and durst communicate
To none but to his wife his ears of state."
Midas was king of Phrygia. He was the son of Gordius, a poor
countryman, who was taken by the people and made king, in
obedience to the command of the oracle, which had said that their
future king should come in a wagon. While the people were
deliberating, Gordius with his wife and son came driving his
wagon into the public square.
Gordius, being made king, dedicated his wagon to the deity of the
oracle, and tied it up in its place with a fast knot. This was
the celebrated GORDIAN KNOT, of which, in after times it was
said, that whoever should untie it should become lord of all
Asia. Many tried to untie it, but none succeeded, till Alexander
the Great, in his career of conquest, came to Phrygia. He tried
his skill with as ill success as the others, till growing
impatient he drew his sword and cut the knot. When he afterwards
succeeded in subjecting all Asia to his sway, people began to
think that he had complied with the terms of the oracle according
to its true meaning.
BAUCIS AND PHILEMON
On a certain hill in Phrygia stand a linden tree and an oak,
enclosed by a low wall. Not far from the spot is a marsh,
formerly good habitable land, but now indented with pools, the
resort of fen-birds and cormorants. Once on a time, Jupiter, in
human shape, visited this country, and with him his son Mercury
(he of the caduceus), without his wings. They presented
themselves at many a door as weary travellers, seeking rest and
shelter, but found all closed, for it was late, and the
inhospitable inhabitants would not rouse themselves to open for
their reception. At last a humble mansion received them, a small
thatched cottage, where Baucis, a pious old dame, and her husband
Philemon, united when young, had grown old together. Not ashamed
of their poverty, they made it endurable by moderate desires and
kind dispositions. One need not look there for master or for
servant; they two were the whole household, master and servant
alike. When the two heavenly guests crossed the humble
threshold, and bowed their heads to pass under the low door, the
old man placed a seat, on which Baucis, bustling and attentive,
spread a cloth, and begged them to sit down. Then she raked out
the coals from the ashes, kindled up a fire, and fed it with
leaves and dry bark, and with her scanty breath blew it into a
flame. She brought out of a corner split sticks and dry
branches, broke them up, and placed them under the small kettle.
Her husband collected some pot-herbs in the garden, and she shred
them from the stalks, and prepared them for the pot He reached
down with a forked stick a flitch of bacon hanging in the
chimney, cut a small piece, and put it in the pot to boil with
the herbs, setting away the rest for another time. A beechen
bowl was filled with warm water that their guests might wash.
While all was doing they beguiled the time with conversation.
On the bench designed for the guests was laid a cushion stuffed
with sea-weed; and a cloth, only produced on great occasions, but
old and coarse enough, was spread over that. The old woman, with
her apron on, with trembling hand set the table. One leg was
shorter than the rest, but a shell put under restored the level.
When fixed, she rubbed the table down with some sweet-smelling
herbs. Upon it she set some olives, Minerva's-fruit, some
cornel-berries preserved in vinegar, and added radishes and
cheese, with eggs lightly cooked in the ashes. All were served
in earthen dishes, and an earthenware pitcher, with wooden cups,
stood beside them. When all was ready, the stew, smoking hot,
was set on the table. Some wine, not of the oldest, was added;
and for dessert, apples and wild honey; and over and above all,
friendly faces, and simple but hearty welcome.
Now while the repast proceeded, the old folks were astonished to
see that the wine, as fast as it was poured out, renewed itself
in the pitcher, of its own accord. Struck with terror, Baucis
and Philemon recognized their heavenly guests, fell on their
knees, and with clasped hands implored forgiveness for their poor
entertainment. There was an old goose, which they kept as the
guardian of their humble cottage; and they bethought them to make
this a sacrifice in honor of their guests. But the goose, too
nimble for the old folks, eluded their pursuit with the aid of
feet and wings, and at last took shelter between the gods
themselves. They forbade it to be slain; and spoke in these
words: "We are gods. This inhospitable village shall pay the
penalty of its impiety; you alone shall go free from the
chastisement. Quit your house, and come with us to the top of
yonder hill." They hastened to obey, and staff in hand, labored
up the steep ascent. They had come within an arrow's flight of
the top, when turning their eyes below, they beheld all the
country sunk in a lake, only their own house left standing.
While they gazed with wonder at the sight, and lamented the fate
of their neighbors, that old house of theirs was changed into a
TEMPLE. Columns took the place of the corner-posts, the thatch
grew yellow and appeared a gilded roof, the floors became marble,
the doors were enriched with carving and ornaments of gold. Then
spoke Jupiter in benignant accents: "Excellent old man, and woman
worthy of such a husband, speak, tell us your wishes; what favor
have you to ask of us?" Philemon took counsel with Baucis a few
moments; then declared to the gods their united wish. "We ask to
be priests and guardians of this your temple; and since here we
have passed our lives in love and concord, we wish that one and
the same hour may take us both from life, that I may not live to
see her grave, nor be laid in my own by her." Their prayer was
granted. They were the keepers of the temple as long as they
lived. When grown very old, as they stood one day before the
steps of the sacred edifice, and were telling the story of the
place, Baucis saw Philemon begin to put forth leaves, and old
Philemon saw Baucis changing in like manner. And now a leafy
crown had grown over their heads, while exchanging parting words,
as long as they could speak. "Farewell, dear spouse," they said,
together, and at the same moment the bark closed over their
mouths. The Tyanean shepherd long showed the two trees, standing
side by side, made out of the two good old people.
The story of Baucis and Philemon has been imitated by Swift, in a
burlesque style, the actors in the change being two wandering
saints and the house being changed into a church, of which
Philemon is made the parson The following may serve as a specimen:-- |
|
댓글 없음:
댓글 쓰기